


The End

by IndigoNight



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Character Death, Crucifiction, M/M, Mercy Killing, Suicide, post-rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a final, desperate act Nasir frees himself and Agron from the Romans forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spartacus or the characters I’m just borrowing them for fun.   
> **Spoilers:** Technically, for history, maybe.  
>  **Warnings:** Character death, angst, tragedy, suicide, mercy killing.  
>  **Author's Note:** Because I am a terrible, masochist person who likes to wallow in her worst fears. Huge thanks to [ Chai ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai/) for the beta work. Read, Review,  
>  **Enjoy!**

It was a simple enough matter to slip through the crowd unnoticed. The Roman citizens were unguarded, an air of victorious relief hanging over them. They took no notice of a woman and a small man quietly pushing through their midst. Why should they? Spartacus was dead, his army shattered, his supporters being executed at that very moment.

Nasir kept his hood up over his face and his cloak drawn tight around him to conceal his weapons. Similarly shrouded, Naevia stuck close to his side. He had told her not to come, had told her to remain with the few others that yet survived - the women, wounded, and elderly who had not joined Spartacus’ army during their last stand. The rebellion was ended, but a few at least may live, if they fled to the mountains. But she had refused, insisting that if he would risk approaching the city to pay respects to their fallen comrades, she would too. Nasir had not the heart to tell her that he had no intention of returning, though he thought perhaps she knew anyway.

No one so much as glanced at them as they made their way through the crowd. Most of the Romans were busy going about common daily matters, though some had stopped to gawk at the spectacle Nasir and Naevia had come to see. The cries of pain rang out over the babble of the market, and already Nasir could see the tops of the crosses over the heads of the assembly. There were not many of them, not here. Most of the captured rebels had been executed outside of the city walls, seemingly endless rows of crosses strewn out along the hillsides that lined the road. But there were a few, the commanders of Spartacus’ army, those who still bore the mark of a gladiator, and those who the Romans had taken particular exception to when marshalling the rebels off to meet their fate.

Nasir had recognized few of the faces along the road; Spartacus’ army had grown so large, so quickly, that most of those who had died in his name were faceless and nameless to those who had led the cause. All the same, it had been hard to look. Many of the faces would have been unrecognizable had they been Nasir’s own kin, and those that were not damaged beyond recognition were masks of horror and suffering. But here, in the center of the city market, there were many faces he knew.

There was Donar, painted in his own blood as he hung upon his cross. By the looks of it, Nasir guessed that Roman cruelty had served as a blessing, as it appeared Donar was long gone from this world and saved the torment of slow, painful death. Not far from him hung Saxa, her spirit unbroken as she still made weak attempts to snarl and spit, despite the tears on her fair face. Beyond them hung Lugo, Sanus, and others that Nasir could not bare to look at too closely - all bloodied, all beaten and broken, many crying or screaming, and only a lucky few already dead.

But in truth, Nasir had eyes for only one man. The one he had come to see. The last to be hung upon a cross, he hung in front of the others as Spartacus’ last great commander. All the others had fallen in the battle; Crixus, Gannicus, and Spartacus himself. Only Agron remained to face this terrible, inglorious death, to be displayed and gloated over like some gruesome trophy.

Nasir had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself silent at the sight of his beloved. The Romans had obviously used Agron cruelly in preparation for his execution. His beautiful body, which Nasir had so often worshipped in stolen moments in the dark of the night, was coated in blood. His flesh was torn and bruised so that not a single undamaged scrape remained, and his head rested limply on his chest. His face, which had always been so quick to smile, was now twisted in a horrific grimace of pain. It tore at Nasir’s heart, and his jaw clenched until he tasted blood.

He felt Naevia’s hand on his arm, whether comfort or restraint he cared not. She stood near enough that he could smell the sweat that gathered in her clothes and just hear her soft words over the babble of the crowd around them. “We cannot linger long,” she warned quietly, her head ducked so as to whisper close to his ear.

He nodded in absent dismissal; he did not intend to tarry. He pushed his way to the edge of the crowd, stopping just short of the stretch of sand that separated the citizens from the suffering rebels. The Romans liked to gawk, but none wanted to go too near. None but Nasir, whose heart ached to take Agron into his arms, heedless of the blood and gore that covered him.

Naevia’s fingers brushed against the frayed cloth of his cloak, though failed to actually grasp it. “Don’t,” she whispered, a final plea. He ignored her. She would slip from the crowd unnoticed. She would go back to those that awaited them. She would take them away, find some place where they could live without fear and lead them with all the strength and courage she possessed.

He felt the smooth, worn leather that bound the hilt of his sword. Holding it tightly, the noise and movements of the bodies pressed around him seemed to slow and grow distant. He let Agron fill his sight, his heart, his mind, drowning out all else. He let out a wild cry as he launched himself from the crowd, carelessly pushing aside those that stood in his way. He freed his sword from its sheath in one smooth motion, brandishing it above his head as he ran.

The guards that stood in loose formation around the prisoners jumped to attention. They closed their ranks, drawing their own swords. Behind him, the crowd Nasir had burst from cried out and scrambled over one another in confusion. Nasir ignored them all; he had only one goal in mind.

It took him hardly a second to cross the empty space between the road and the crosses, yet it felt like an eternity. He barely even noticed the soldiers who readied themselves to face him; they were too slow and of no concern to him anyway. His steps were sure and true, his sword arm raised at the ready. He did not stop until his sword found its mark. 

The thunk of steel tip burying deep into wood brought him up short. Blood poured from pieced flesh to stain Nasir’s hair and face. Agron let out a soft cry of surprise; he was beyond registering fresh pain. He was jolted from his agonized daze and managed to lift his head just enough to stare down at the sword that impaled him, and then beyond it to Nasir’s tear soaked face. His eyes were distant and fogged, already half lost to this world. He frowned down at the Syrian in vague confusion, but his lips moved to silently form the man’s name.

Nasir looked up at his gladiator, the man of his heart, with a bitter twist to his lips and love in his eyes. “We leave this life together,” Nasir whispered. He twisted the sword that pierced Agron’s stomach to quicken his inevitable death. Agron deserved the death of a warrior; he deserved to fall in the heat of battle, drenched in the blood of his enemies with laughter on his lips. But the gods had denied him that, and this was the least Nasir could give him - a quick death at the end of a sword. Agron had no chance to speak, but there was still a smile on his lips as the light left his eyes.

The Roman guards had recovered from their surprise and rushed forward to pull Nasir away from the dead gladiator. Nasir let them; there was little they could do to him now. They wrenched the sword that still impaled Agron from his grasp and dragged him away from the cross, but they were too late to stop the dagger that Nasir grasped in his other hand. The pain was sudden, sharp. The Roman that had pulled him away from Agron grabbed Nasir’s hands, as though he would prevent Nasir from doing further damage. But what more damage was there to do?

Already, Nasir could feel the pain slipping away as darkness rose to claim him. Above him, guards hovered about and shouted in confusion and anger. Nasir laughed, blood bubbling up from between his lips and spraying onto the face of the Roman that still held him. He took vicious pleasure from the sight, from the knowledge that his last breath was spent laughing in the face of a Roman. He had never felt more free.


End file.
